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It’s a myth, you know — the so-called “peace and quiet” of the countryside. Folks who don’t live out here picture chirping birds, gentle breezes, and maybe a cow lowing in the distance. What they don’t picture is the daily soundtrack of real country living — and believe me, it’s got a beat.
The other morning I was jolted awake by a rhythmic thud… thud… THWACK! spaced just far enough apart that I had time to wonder if I’d dreamt it. Nope. That, friends, was my man, out there chopping down yet another tree before breakfast.
Not long after came the unmistakable sputter of the chainsaw. I heard him pull that cord three or four times before the thing finally decided to cooperate — and once it did, it let the whole valley know it. He sawed until the tree was in tidy pieces, humming right along with it like it was a duet.
Then came the tractor. There’s no mistaking that chug-chug-chug when Willie fires it up to move the logs with the front-loader. The earth itself seemed to rumble in agreement. You don’t hear that kind of noise in the city — mostly because zoning laws would never allow it.
By mid-afternoon, the world was finally still. Birds were singing again. I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d get my peaceful moment. But no. That’s when I heard it: the faint whine of the leaf blower. I looked outside to see my husband, protector of the front yard, chasing a single stubborn leaf across the grass like it had personally insulted him.
So yes, on occasion, the country is full of peace and quiet. You just have to wait for it to fall between the various tools usage. Around here, serenity comes in short bursts… right between gas refills.